


match made in cyber heaven

by phae



Series: cyber heaven verse [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clint's not an Avenger, Getting Together, Identity Porn, M/M, Online Dating, Vigilante Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 01:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11094405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: Clint swipes right onGrant, 27because there's not a single clear view of his face in any of the four photos attached to his profile.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icywind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icywind/gifts).



> Originally posted to Tumblr over the course of...a few months, here's the full version of their Get Together story.

Clint swipes right on  _ Grant, 27 _ (Brooklyn born and bred! These days, work keeps me traveling pretty constantly, though, which puts a decisive damper on my social life. I'm looking for a connection, be that friendship or a more intimate relationship.) because there's not a single clear view of his face in any of the four photos attached to his profile.

His main photo is as close as any of them get: what looks to be a selfie angled to show his (impressively buff) body to best effect, a hint of a grin barely making it into the frame at the top. Clint can tell from the rest of the composition that it's not a smug selfie, though, but in fact a candid shot that's been cropped just so to keep Grant's face present yet indistinguishable from the majority of clean-shaven white guys in their mid-twenties to early-thirties.

The other images include: a picture of Grant from the back, sporting an old-fashioned military dress uniform, probably from a Halloween party, his face turned so that only his ear and the shape of his cheek are visible; a photo of him napping on a sofa, one arm thrown over his face to block out the light in the room as his legs stretch out for days across the cushions; and a snapshot where he's jogging, most likely an early morning run given the direction of the sun that oh-so-conveniently casts Grant in a perfect silhouette of cardio-carved prowess.

As an avid participant in the carefully-framed-to-exclude-self selfie arts himself, finding another Tinderer who's so adept in his anonymity intrigues Clint. (Clint's current fave from his own profile is a shot where his face is mashed into Lucky's fur while the goob mugs for the camera, keeping all his features that might trip the latest and greatest facial recognition software hidden even as he shows off just enough of his face that his dopey grin is apparent in the laugh lines creasing his eyes.)

So Clint swipes right. And thus, history is made.


	2. Chapter One

Grant, Clint finds over the next week and a half of sporadic yet informative messages, types everything out longhand with proper punctuation, entirely misses at least half of Clint's stellar pop culture witticisms, is hideously indecisive about where he should eat next if the number of times he asks Clint for suggestions is anything to go off of, and keeps the same oddball hours that Clint does given how his responses are timed.

The number one thing Clint's managed to deduce about Grant, though, is that the guy's 90% salt and sass.

(Clint goes out and buys a fresh burner phone and gifts the number to Grant, telling him that there's no obligation for Grant to use it, but he'd really like to continue chatting, following it up with a joke about how his data plan would appreciate the reprieve.

_ There are still people roaming the streets in this day and age without unlimited data plans? What's the future coming to? :P  _ Grant texts him the next day around two in the morning.)

Shockingly, the other 10% of Grant’s personality is made up of the most eagerly sincere  _ goodness _ that Clint's ever come across. Clint would say Grant's unironic rescue of a tabby from a tree (carefully documented via Grant's Snapchat story Clint was unexpectedly looped into) left him humbled, but Clint would first have to be capable of such modest emotions in order to feel them.

Thing is, though, as much as Clint appreciates Grant's cheeky replies and wonders over how a man can care so passionately about current issues that don't even affect him, Clint's a man on a mission, and that mission is to uncover the mystery of Grant's face and why he's so adamant to hide it online.

From everything he's been able to deduce, Grant's not shy, at least he's certainly not about his opinions, no matter how controversial they may be. Clint's spent three days winding him up into various rants about Big Business and the economic crisis just for shits and giggles, and boy howdy, did Grant ever deliver.

Clint doesn’t think it could be a matter of self consciousness, either. Grant's body is clearly a work of art, and Clint has a hard time believing his face could rebel so fiercely as to not fall in line.

Clint's pet theory is that Grant's some low level celebrity, one of those who thinks he's much more popular and recognizable than he actually is, needlessly keeping a low profile online. He’s got a bet going with himself over whether or not he’ll even recognize Grant once he gets a look at the money shot.

He briefly entertains the idea that Grant's like him, studiously avoiding the kind of digital trail that'll one day be the final nail in his coffin, but honestly, the chances of Grant being some sort of government worker skirting the line of classified or a closeted Army man are much greater, and those scenarios don't even rank particularly high on Clint's list.


	3. Chapter Two

Clint is, if he does say so himself, quite well versed in the fine art of the con, long or otherwise. The Daily Bugle can vilify his character, mock his sartorial choices, and make disparaging comments about his exploits 'til the cows come home; it's hardly his fault none of their reporters have cottoned on to how all his "unrelated" excursions actually all play on each other.

And while coaxing a face pic out of a rando he met online is hardly a challenge worthy of his genius, it keeps him entertained. Plus, it's the simple things in life, really.

Five days into their texting odyssey, Clint finally lays out his gambit.

_i'm starting to feel guilty about getting drawn n by ur hot bod_

_not sayin it's not fantastic!_

_cuase it is_

_like_

_i'd award u people's sexiest man of the year at least once, u know?_

_Just the once?_

_ugh, shut up asshole_

_u know what i mean_

_Not really. Were you building up to a point there?_

_ass. Hole._

_and yes_

_the point being_

_i've never seen ur face_

_which is a tragedy_

_of like shakespearean proprotions_

_i've been fantasizing bout a greek god with a paper bag pulled over his head_

_I'm not really up to date on all these new age kinks, but I don't think that's one of them._

_FINE. i'll just photoshop some celebs mug over ur profile pic_

_what's ur stance on ryan reynolds?_

_don't matter, ur getting reynolds-faced_

Clint's quick Google search from his laptop for an appropriately angled picture is interrupted when his burner buzzes obnoxiously with an incoming picture message. Equal amounts curious and smug, Clint taps the image to enlarge the off-center shot of sweat-matted blond locks, bright baby blues, and a bashful little grin.

And then Clint’s mouth jerks down in a peeved scowl because it's a fucking cropped snap of _Steve Rogers_. Yeah, like goddamn Captain America just trolls the Tinder-sphere on the daily scoping out dudes. Scoffing at all the respect points Grant just lost himself for complete and utter unoriginality, Clint tosses his phone aside and debates how to proceed.

So, it's obvious there's no "Grant." Now that he knows the photo source, it's easy to piece together the other photos from the Tinder profile into an all-American whole, probably repurposed from one of Cap's many fansites where new stockpiles of cameraphone goodies pop up hourly.

And hell, Clint's really got no grounds to knock the dude, if it even is a dude, on the false ID given that he's going by _Frank, 32_ on this particular profile. But he was hoping for a better equipped opponent honestly, not some amateur catfisher.

Granted, he's not entirely sure why the guy's still talking to him, since Clint made the first move and can't be the intended target. Unless the guy gets his jollies pretending to be Cap? Like those Elvis impersonators who get way too into the lie and never come back out of it. Or maybe it's more cruel than that, maybe "Grant" sells the willing singles of New York on the ultimate fantasy then strips it all away just so he can laugh in their faces?

Lying innocuously on the other end of the couch, Clint's phone vibrates again.

Not cool, Grant. _Not cool._


	4. Chapter Three

Clint lasts a measly three minutes and seventeen seconds before he gives in and picks the phone back up, opening the latest message from Not Grant (Greve? Strant?) with an overly aggressive swipe across the screen.

_Not disappointed, I hope?_

_In your naiveté?_ Clint thinks. 'Cause yes, yes he is. But whatever. He'll play the game, and when the time's right, he'll expose Not Grant for the douche canoe he really is.

_depends_

_how pissed r u gonna be if i hit u w/ my best patriotic pickups?_

_cause like_

_ive been holding on to these to maek the 4th magical_

_but thisd be a way better use for them_

_Well, THAT depends on how hideously cliché they are._

_Because I have to warn you, I've heard more than my fair share, as I'm sure you can imagine._

_;)_

_u gonna spangle me til i see stars, captain?_

_on a scale of 1 to america, how free r u tonight?_

_babe u remind me of the constitution cause u look like a national treasure_

_Somewhat lacking in originality, but you get a bonus point for turning "spangle" into a euphemism for fucking._

_:O_

_language, cap!_

_Apologies. It was never my intention to offend your delicate sensibilities._

_So are you going to return the favor?_

_huh?_

_I couldn't help but notice that your profile was also fairly lacking in full frontal pics._

Well, well, _well_. Somebody showed up with their big boy pants on today. Smirking down at the screen devilishly, Clint starts typing in a rapid flurry.

_well i should hOPE SO_

_cap, im postiviely scandalized_

_first u start throwin out f bombs, and now ur asking for dick pics?_

_you don't give em the d right off the bat_

_they gotta work for it_

_altho, how very american pie of you ;)_

_You know what I meant, jackass._

_Is this one of those instances where 'pic or it didn't happen' applies?_

Snorting indelicately, Clint glances around his apartment. There's not much to it, just an open studio floorplan with a small loft that serves as his bedroom. But a dude's got to lay his hat somewhere, and it suffices just fine for Clint's minimal housing needs.

On the lone bookshelf in the corner, the top shelf is decorated with the few sentimental detritus Clint's allowed himself to hold onto over the years. And there, sitting smack dab in the middle, a place of honor, is the purple mask from his original Hawkeye costume from back in the days where he could actually get away with donning one because the circus was all about gaudy flair.

With a smirk, Clint opens the camera app and flips it to the front screen before scooping up the mask and settling it over his eyes. It's a little snug these days, but it's more a comfort than an annoyance.

Turning so that all that's visible behind him is the blank white wall, Clint snaps a selfie and sends it off.

_Is that from some cosplay that's just going right over my head?_

_nah_

_once upon a time i had quite the career in a traveling circus_

_Well then, between you and me, I'm sure we could put on quite the side show._

_;)_

Clint surprises himself with how loud he laughs at that.


	5. Chapter Four

Clint's been working obnoxious Cap jokes into every conversation since--no matter how short--slipping them in between casually probing questions about "Steve's" hobbies and interests, yet still the guy hasn't given up the game. Clint would give him props for his dedication to the con, not to mention his choice responses to Clint’s bomb diggity jokes. _(Is this the part where I promise I'll have you seeing stars and stripes? Because honestly, my past partners have all described the experience as an explosively stellar pyrotechnic display.)_ But honestly, it's all starting to grow a little stale at this point.

Clint should cut his loses and just ditch the phone, he muses as he clears the floor of a nondescript office building. The few employees that were inhabiting it five minutes ago at least managed to exit in a timely fashion when he tripped the fire alarm, it seems. And they clearly didn't think it was anything more than a drill given all the computers sitting pretty before him, still logged on to their secured network.

Sloppy for them, but lucky for Clint. Hacking is not one of his more polished skills. Sliding out a USB drive from a hidden compartment in his belt, he plugs it into the nearest terminal and gets to work stealing files.

Of course, the blasted burner phone chooses that moment to start buzzing away in his back pocket, vibrating against his butt with an annoying regularity. With a drawn out sigh, Clint finishes locating and verifying the files he's after then sets them to copying before pulling out his phone and glaring down at the string of new messages from faux-Steve.

_There's something I want to ask you, but I don't want you to feel any kind of pressure to reply favorably._

_These conversations have been the highlight of my day these last few weeks, and at the very least, I'd like to continue in this vein._

_But I was wondering if you might be interested in meeting?_

_There's a coffee shop near Stark Tower that I hang out in when I want to people-watch and draw._

_The staff and customers all respect other patrons' privacy, so you don't have to worry about getting your picture snapped with me and then the internet blowing up trying to figure out who you are._

The progress bar on the computer screen blinks out, and Clint ejects the drive, slipping it back under his belt. His finger taps against the back of the phone case as he idly wonders how to respond. On the one hand, he should really step away from this whole thing while he has a guarantee of getting out clean. But on the other, a face-to-face will put the mystery to bed once and for all.

Plus, Clint's never been any good at letting sleeping dogs lie.

_whend u have n mind?_

Damning evidence collected, Clint shuts the computer down and pops the hard drive free to take with him as well; he's been burned by mass produced technology five times too often to pile all his eggs in one stick-sized basket. He stows the hard drive in an over-sized cargo pocket, then pilfers another hard drive from the other side of the cubicle nest. Just in case.

_Tomorrow? Two o'clock? I can text you the address._

Letting his eyes sweep the floor one last time, Clint makes his way over to the wall of windows that every NYC high-rise praises itself on. Sure, it's an awesome view, but it's also insecure as _fuck_. Clint taps out a parting string of texts before pocketing his phone:

_c u then_

_i'll be the handsome devil sippin a iced americano ;)_

_aka the guy w the sparkly purple phone cse_

Pulling three specialized arrows from the quiver slung across his back, Clint jams the arrowhead of one into the nearest window, neatly piercing the glass. A simple flick of a switch on his bow, and a low hum starts up, quickly rising in pitch until the glass surrounding the carved tip spiderwebs and abruptly shatters.

Exit path cleared, Clint knocks the second arrow and lets it fly between one breath and the next, shooting it into the center-most terminal. He trips another switch and the end of the arrow starts flashing rapidly, lighting up the translucent, coated fletching.

He dives out the gaping hole where a window once stood before the countdown reaches zero, waiting for the explosion to ignite before firing off his last arrow: a modified grappling hook. He doesn't bother worrying about if the fire will take care of the shafts he left behind or not. They make a decent enough calling card, and he's been getting flak from the conspiracy theory bloggers for a lack of solid brand management lately.

Clint swings clear fancy as you please, even sticks the landing in a move Spiderman only wishes he could pull off. His gear and the goods go in the duffel he left around back of the office building by the loading docks, tac vest dropping off his shoulders and pants shucking to pool around his ankles before he kicks them free. Then he's hitting the streets in loose basketball shorts and a sweat-spotted tank, the same as hundreds of other active New Yorkers out enjoying one of the first nice days of Spring, ruminating over what he should wear for tomorrow's confrontation.


	6. Chapter Five

Steve shuffles down the block to his usual café slowly, determined not to lose his shoe again like he'd done in the elevator early. What in the world was the purpose of even selling shoes with laces any more if the fashionable thing to do was to leave them untied?

He adjusts the bulky frames Natasha had handed over with a knowing quirk to her lips while he was on his way out of the Tower and resists the urge to uselessly adjust his rigidly set cap again. He didn't usually bother with all the modern trappings of going cloak and dagger in New York anymore, but he especially doesn't want some overzealous fan stalking him today of all days and scaring Frank off before Steve can even make a proper first impression.

And so, "casual dude-bro" is clearly the way to go.

His steps stutter to a halt when the thought crosses his mind that while the drop-crotch skinny jeans afford him the ability to hide in plain sight, his current ensemble likely isn't going to help that whole stellar first impression thing he's going for with this date. Palms starting to faintly sweat, Steve pulls an about-face, backtracks half a block, then makes himself turn right back around because he's going to make himself late, and showing up late, leaving Frank to sit there and wonder if Steve's standing him up, is bound to go over a thousand times worse than showing up dressed like he's unwilling to leave his non-existent frat-boy days behind.

Steve double-times it the rest of the way to the café, pushing inside with his shoulders hunched self-consciously. The bell over the door, usually such a welcoming sound, makes his stomach clench with nerves as he sidles to the back of the line to place his drink order and surreptitiously surveys the other milling patrons.

He's knows Frank is a buff guy, though he doesn't have any real measure of height to factor into the body-build equation, and there's a number of guys sitting around today that could fit the bill. His hair is a dirty blond, which is likewise a non-starter. Belatedly remembering Frank's teasing comments from yesterday, he switches his focus from the actual people to their phones, looking for one that decidedly stands out.

A shine of artificial light on glitter catches his eye, and there, sitting innocuously on top of a table shoved into the back corner, is a sparkly purple phone case. And sitting at the table--well, that has to be Frank, and holy fuck but photos do not do the man justice.

Steve’s ripped away from staring like a total creeper by the barista asking, “Can I get something started for you, Captain?” Ducking his head bashfully, Steve rattles off what’s become his Usual and slinks away after dropping his change in the tip jar.

Steve eyes the mass of people crowding around the counter waiting on drinks and then Frank, who’s looking at his phone and then the door, sweeping his eyes over the midday crowd, which, of course, inevitably means his gaze lands on Steve while he’s still working up the nerve to walk over.

Frank’s eyes widen that tiniest fraction that Steve’s grown accustomed to now that he’s a quote-unquote celebrity, that automatic reaction-check people do when they’re trying to maintain a cool facade. Lips quirking up in a poor attempt at a smile, Steve raises a hand and waves.

_Ugh_ , he instantly berates himself. Why is always such a damn meatball around people he’s attracted to?

Thoroughly spotted now, Steve really has no choice but to make his way to Frank’s table in the back, skirting around the manic placements of tables and chairs as he goes.

He opens his mouth to say--well, he has no clue, and nothing comes out anyway, so he thankfully manages to just shut his gob for once, nods in greeting, and plops down to sit in the open seat, perching on the edge uncomfortably.

"Shit,” Frank finally says, his voice coming out low and a little breathy. Steve quite likes it. “You weren't trolling me."

"Uh, no.” Steve raises a hand to run through his hair sheepishly, but remembers his hat at the last second and drops it back down in his lap. He was hoping, with the whole reveal thing they’d gone through via texting, that this wouldn’t be happening this time around, but well-- “Sorry?"

Frank shakes his head, more like he’s trying to shake himself out of the shock than in response to Steve. Before he can say anything, though, a barista is calling out Steve’s order at the counter.

“That’s me.” He points a finger back over his shoulder, standing and bumping into the table as he goes. Frank catches his cup before it can topple over, and Steve tries to hide his wince. “Sorry, I’ll just--I’ll be right back.”

Taking carefully measured steps to retrieve his drink, Steve breathes in deep through his nose and out slow through his mouth. _Just play it cool. Calm, cool and collected. He’s just a guy. Just a guy who’s hopefully still into you._ He pivots smoothly, coffee in hand, and makes his way back to Frank sedately, even sliding back into his seat without mishap. He opens his mouth again, planning to start things off right this time, and says, “So, uh, hi?”

Frank cocks an eyebrow up as he looks back at Steve, something in his gaze darkly amused. He leans in over the edge of the table and Steve can’t help but mirror him.

“Gotta say,” Frank starts, voice pitched low. “I had you pegged for the catfish, but this is definitely not how I saw it playing out." Confused--especially as to what the hell a catfish is (honestly, there’s so many new slang words for any and everything in this century that Steve’s default is to just assume it’s a Sex Thing)--Steve brows pinch together and his mouth drops open, but before he can say anything, there’s a strong hand wrapping tight around his wrist under the table, something smooth and metal--a spoon, he thinks, going by the rounded edge--sliding up his forearm and dipping into the bend of his elbow to apply precise pressure to his brachial artery. "This is all a bit elaborate for a set up, don't you think?” Frank continues. His eyes have gone flinty and cold. “Fury even stop to think about the repercussions of sending their paragon of virtue out to catfish a _guy_?"

"What? No, this isn't--” Steve starts off spluttering, but he cuts himself off as the varied pieces of a fucked up jigsaw puzzle finally fall into place. “Holy fuck,” he breathes out, tone tinging over into awe. Beautifully buff guy who avoids posting anything with his face in it, who apparently knows the name of the head of an intelligence agency that is still largely classified and covert, who considers himself enough of a bigshot to warrant an Avenger being sent in for him, who is ballsy enough to move in _closer_ to a super soldier he feels threatened by--“You're _Hawkeye_."

Frank--fucking _Hawkeye--_ smirks across the table at him, and there’s nothing but danger lurking in the expression, a coiled readiness in the set of his shoulders now. "Brilliantly deduced there, Watson. How about you stand up nice and slow and walk me out the back? Or is the alley already crawling with suits?"

"No! I swear, this isn't a trap!” Before he’s really thought about it, he’s snatched the spoon out of Clint’s grip, and it’s bent in his palm when he raises his hands slightly above the table in a pacifying gesture--which, honestly, the mangled spoon probably ruins pretty epically. Cringing, Steve goes on in a pleading tone, “I promise I didn't have any idea who you were when I messaged you! I just really liked your biceps."

Nonplussed (and really, Steve thinks in the back of his mind where he’s still that mouthy little shit who never knew when to hold his tongue, the guy could at least look a _bit_ intimidated, if not impressed) Hawkeye leans back in his chair and raises his shoulders in a shrug so gracefully casual that it sets all kinds of warning bells going in Steve’s mind. "They're works of art, I know."

Licking his lips distractedly, Steve says quietly, "Cross my heart, I'm not here as Captain America. Not even here as Steven Rogers technically." With a self-deprecating quirk to his lips, he gestures to his hiding-in-plain-sight disguise. "I'm just Steve right now, out for a coffee date with--I'm guessing your name’s not actually Frank, huh?"

Hawkeye’s looking at him now like how most people do these days, that incredulous kind of _is this guy for real_? But then his eyes track methodically across the coffee shop--hopefully noting the decided lack of attention people are paying them, nothing suspicious about it--before settling back on Steve. He tilts his head to the side just so, and his whole body seems to relax between one breath and the next. "Clint," he finally offers.

"Clint." Steve nods as he says it, his mouth twisting up into something like a grin without any input from his brain. “Is _that_ your real name?”

Clint snorts as he raises his cup and starts back in on his coffee. “You work with enough superspies on the daily, I'm sure you can figure that out for yourself just fine.”

True enough, Steve supposes, though he won’t. He’d much rather wait Clint out until he’s willing to confirm or deny it on his own; Steve’s just old-fashioned like that. “Well, _Clint_ , it’s nice to meet you. I'm a big fan of your sidejob." He sticks his hand out over the table and holds it there until Clint clasps it with his own, a calculating expression clouding over his face. His hand is rough, the skin calloused in odd places given Steve’s experience with mostly military personnel, but then it would be, seeing as Hawkeye is known for his rather flashy skills with a bow.

A thought suddenly occurs to Steve as he lets Clint’s hand slide free, and he asks, "You weren't kidding about the circus, were you?" Clint only smirks in reply. "Makes a hell of a lot more sense,” Steve notes absently. “The analysts pouring over your file currently have you pegged as a gymnast who washed out in his teens, never made it to Nationals or the Olympics."

Clint’s eyes narrow indignantly. "Hey, I've been to the Olympics plenty, bro. Got the medals to prove it."

"Not for gymnastics, though, nevermind the acrobatics you can pull off. So, archery?" Again, all he gets is that enigmatic upward twist of lips. “That was the first pool of suspects they looked at, you know? A vigilante shows up one day wielding a paleolithic weapon, so it seemed the obvious place to look. Nobody’s shooting style matched up to the footage we had available, though, so they started looking elsewhere. Can’t say anybody’s thought to look through circus acts, yet.”

“Shooting for sport ain’t got a whole lot to do with shooting a would-be bomber who’s wired himself up to blow any second from the only vantage point that isn’t crawling with feds. No room for officially recognized stances when you’re curled up in an air duct.”

“Is _that_ where you were?” Steve’s pretty much gushing at this point, but he can’t help it. The Avengers had been on scene for that one, and even Tony’d just about blown a gasket trying to calculate the trajectory of what should have been an impossible shot. Vaguely, he wonders if this is how Coulson’d felt the first time they’d met. He feels suddenly and oddly sympathetic towards his handler.

Spinning his largely-ignored cup of coffee between his palms, Steve self-consciously wets his lips before venturing, "So, uh, about those medals. Any chance I could get a private viewing?"

"Steve.” Clint damn well _drawls_ his name, and between that and the downright predatory tint to his smile, Steve can feel his dick perk up in absolute interest. “Are you looking to invite yourself over to see my etchings?"

Steve has to gulp down a hearty helping of coffee before he can reply. "Only if you're offering."

"You keep fucking me with your eyes like that, and I'm gonna be demanding," Clint fires back instantly. He gets to his feet fluidly without even jostling his chair back across the floor tiles and tips his head towards the door.  “I’ve got a place nearby.”

And yeah, Steve caught that--not “ _My_ place is nearby.” And this is Hawkeye, a vigilante that SHIELD’s been tracking for months without any real progress to show for it. Following where he’s leading right now is the very definition of a Bad Idea. But Steve’s been fantasizing about getting his mouth close enough to taste this guy’s deliciously tanned skin for going on weeks at this point, and the invitation just slid into his lap on a silver platter, so he’s not much inclined to care at the moment.


	7. Epilogue

Steve saunters through the security checkpoint as he enters SHIELD’s New York HQ, sipping at the triple shot latte he’d picked up on his way uptown.

Tony’d woken him up with a text asking if he was “walk of shaming it” to their mid-morning briefing with Fury and Coulson, and if he wanted Tony to have a change of clothes delivered to him via the Iron Man Express.

Steve doesn’t get what’s so shameful about it. Sure, he’s wearing yesterday’s jeans, but he also has one of Clint’s t-shirts pulling just a little too snug across his chest, the fabric well-worn and soft against his skin, the lingering scent decidedly unfamiliar yet welcome.

By the time he slips into the conference room, he’s late enough that they’ve started the briefing without him. Tony swivels in his chair instantly to leer at him. Sam just glances over then snorts quietly to himself, shaking his head with a faint smile. Bruce looks up from the briefing packing he’s perusing and simply nods in greeting. Natasha doesn’t look away from where she is carefully focused on the holo-screens shimmering in the air behind Coulson, but his phone buzzes tellingly in his back pocket as he slides into an empty seat amid the full might of Fury’s lone stinkeye.

The room grows quiet, but before it can grow awkward, Steve shrugs in apology and quips, “I had a date.”


End file.
